


just one, I'm a few

by downtheroadandupthehill



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Clones, M/M, Orphan Black-esque clones, sort of incestuous because Enjolras and Grantaire are clones, vaguely Orphan Black AU, with no plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-20
Updated: 2014-04-20
Packaged: 2018-01-20 02:03:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1492660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/downtheroadandupthehill/pseuds/downtheroadandupthehill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He looks lean and lithe beneath his clothes where he’s lounging on Grantaire’s sofa, like he jogs every day and eats well, and fuck, now Grantaire is thinking about what he looks like without clothes, and wanting to sleep with someone who shares your exact DNA is probably (definitely) incest. Nontraditional incest, but incest all the same.</p>
<p>(He does not wonder if they are similarly endowed below the belt. Never, no, not at all, because that would be weird, and Grantaire would like to pretend he isn’t curious about that, thanks.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	just one, I'm a few

Grantaire has never thought of himself as beautiful. His curly hair frizzes too easily and his complexion is less than perfect, riddled with scars from adolescent acne. His eyes are perpetually red and deeply shadowed, and his body, while strong and tight with muscle from years of dance and boxing, has grown soft in the middle from overindulging in beer and fast food.

To a certain extent, it makes sense that Enjolras is fucking  _gorgeous_. He’s clearly taken care of himself, still does. Judging by the brightness of his eyes, how simply  _alert_  he seems, he gets enough sleep at night. Somehow the awkward teenage acne skipped him, too, or maybe his adoptive parents could just afford to take him to a dermatologist. He even manages to pull off the cheap blond dye in his hair, with half an inch of jet black showing right up against his scalp. Grantaire probably couldn’t pull off being blond if it killed him, and he’s never wanted to try. Everything looks better on Enjolras, he suspects.

He looks lean and lithe beneath his clothes where he’s lounging on Grantaire’s sofa, like he jogs every day and eats well, and  _fuck_ , now Grantaire is thinking about what he looks like without clothes, and wanting to sleep with someone who shares your exact DNA is probably ( _definitely_ ) incest. Nontraditional incest, but incest all the same.

(He does  _not_  wonder if they are similarly endowed below the belt.  _Never_ , no, not at all, because that would be weird, and Grantaire would like to pretend he isn’t curious about that, thanks.)

He huffs a little, lights the cigarette that’s been left idly dangling from his fingertips while he stared. Pretends he wasn’t staring.

“So Combeferre filled you in on everything?” Enjolras asks him, glaring at the cigarette.

“We’re all clones from some fucked up lab or something, and one of the clones is out to kill all of us, only for some reason he doesn’t know I exist. Who the fuck knows why. And you need a safe place to stay.”

Enjolras gives him a skeptical look. “And you believe him? It ought to have taken you longer to accept something so unbelievable. It took me awhile, at the start of it.”

Grantaire shrugs, takes a long, sweet drag from his cigarette. “I can’t exactly dispute the evidence of, y’know, how we’re all nearly identical, can I?”

“Completely identical, technically, Combeferre says. We’ll know for sure once he tests your DNA for variations, too, but he’s pretty certain.”

“Yeah, whatever. You know what I meant. Lucky one of us can do science shit though, right?”

Enjolras goes quiet, picking at the loose threads on the arm of Grantaire’s ancient couch. “Do you have anything to read?” He glances around the almost-empty room, making Grantaire wish that he’d at least bought a television.

“Books are heavy,” Grantaire snorts, because Enjolras isn’t the only of them who’s ever been on the run from something. Even though he’s found a small, quiet place for now, he hasn’t stayed here long enough to start acquiring something as frivolous,  _luxurious_  as books, although it’s an undeniably nice thought. “I have a laptop. You brought one too, right?”

Enjolras nods, reaching down to unzip his backpack, and adds, “I’ll ask Combeferre to bring by some books when he visits next.”

“We’re not stuck here. We’re allowed to leave, you know. We can go back to your apartment and grab anything you forgot.”

“ _We_?” Enjolras narrows his eyes.

“Yes, we. You don’t even know how to use a gun, and evil clone—”

“Montparnasse.”

“Yeah, whatever—evil clone Montparnasse is probably keeping an eye on your place, waiting for you to come back. So yeah. We.”

“It’s too dangerous,” Enjolras concludes, and Grantaire lets out a sigh of relief. He’d go to the ends of the earth for this man he met a week ago, he’s already realizing, but even so, risking his skin for a couple of books to entertain his houseguest with is a bit much. “How long do we have to stay together like this?”

“Until Montparnasse is out of the picture, I assume.” Grantaire shrugs and takes another drag on his cigarette. “Combeferre doesn’t want you to end up dead and I’m inclined to agree. We know he already got the German, and probably more of us, too. Scary fucker.” He stubs out the cigarette in an overfilled ashtray. “Pretty though, like you.” He tries to say it nonchalantly, like he’s commenting on the weather instead of how hot he thinks he thinks his  _fucking clone_ is, though he probably would’ve been better off not saying anything at all. “But there’s strength in numbers. Combeferre would join us, if he didn’t have school,” he adds, in the hopes that Enjolras will ignore his last humiliating comment.

Enjolras blushes. So, no such luck, of course. He’s even prettier with pink color high in his cheeks. “We all look the same,” he manages to splutter.

“Whatever.” It isn’t worth the embarrassment to argue further. “You need to learn how to shoot.”

“ _What_?”

“There’s a maniac out there trying to kill you. Us. All of us, probably. You need to learn to defend yourself. I can probably get you a gun. Eponine knows people. We can go out to the middle of bumfuck nowhere, shoot at empty beer cans or something. You should probably learn.”

“Alright.” Enjolras nods, expression unexpectedly cool.

“Alright?” Grantaire leans in closer, chin in his hands. He feels himself smiling. “You don’t want to preach at me about, I don’t know, the virtues of non-violence and vegetarianism or some shit?”

“Violence can be effective in protest and in self-defense,” Enjolras says. “You’re right. I should learn to shoot a gun.”

…..

Grantaire offers Enjolras his bed for the night and Enjolras sleeps on the couch, fitfully. It’s a studio apartment and Grantaire can hear him tossing and turning most of the night, springs creaking every time Enjolras moves. He can only sigh and smush his pillow over his own head, trying to block out the noise and the thoughts of his sleepless half-naked clone on the sofa, body twisted trying to get comfortable, back arched and—

_No_. No. Grantaire needs to sleep. It’s a studio apartment, and a tiny one at that—Enjolras would undoubtedly hear him even if he went into the shower to jerk off. This is not happening because Grantaire will not allow it to.

So they’re both tired and haggard in the morning, and Enjolras is still gorgeous. They gang up on Grantaire’s coffee machine together, both of them impatient waiting for the brew to finish, bare shoulders pressed together. There’s no way that Enjolras is as conscious of it as Grantaire is, and this is starting to get  _humiliating_ , Grantaire thinks.

Even if they weren’t clones, which is its own unique kind of fucked-up, even for him—Grantaire is aware that Enjolras wouldn’t spare him a glance even if they  _didn’t_  have the exact same DNA. Especially if they didn’t. They’re thrown together into this mess specifically because of their same DNA, which is the only reason he’s sparing a glance for Grantaire now. Out of necessity.

If they were  _normal_ , and Enjolras was hot (he is) and not a clone and Grantaire was not (he isn’t) and not a clone, and they passed each other on the street, Grantaire would gape and Enjolras would walk right past him and that would be the end of it.

The clone thing just fucks with the natural equilibrium of how these things are  _supposed_  to go.

After coffee, he drives them outside the city, past the suburbs, and right into the middle of nowhere. It’s a good place for them to practice—Grantaire’s gun is in the glove compartment in his car.

“I thought I should have my own?” Enjolras asks, while Grantaire sets up empty cans not too far away. Grantaire watches Enjolras out of the corner of his eye—the handgun looks awkward and heavy in his hands, he doesn’t know how to hold it, and he keeps glancing down nervously at it.

“Yeah, we’ll get you your own once you prove you can manage it.” Grantaire tries to grin at him, to soften the blow, although judging by Enjolras’s stony glare, he must just come off as mocking, instead.

There’s silence between them, mostly, save for the sound of the gun firing and Grantaire’s murmured pointers. He gets to touch Enjolras to fix his grip, adjusting his fist around the handle and curling his finger around the trigger. Grantaire’s leather gloves are a barrier between their skin—which is for the best, he thinks, even though he feels Enjolras’s warm breath against his neck. It’s more intimate than it should be, for him. Meanwhile, Enjolras watches him work with focus, eyes narrowed, taking note of every correction and not making the same mistake twice.

Eventually Enjolras starts hitting the cans, straightening his shoulders in between every shot, and Grantaire is able to step back, arms crossed over his chest. He sets the cans back up again for a few rounds, before Enjolras shoots back down again.

Finally Grantaire whistles lowly, appreciatively. “Good. You’ll do. We’ll come practice again once you get your own, but for now I’m fucking starving. Lunch?”

Enjolras shakes his head. He flicks the safety back on and hands the gun to Grantaire. “People will  _see_.”

“We can pretend to be twins? You’re the brilliant hot one who got all the good genes, and I’m the slob who got all the bad ones. People will buy it.”

Enjolras presses his lips together in what looks like annoyance—but after a few seconds, Grantaire realizes he’s trying to suppress a smile. It catches him off guard, like a blow to the chest, and he can’t immediately reply when Enjolras says fondly, “We have the same genes, Grantaire.”

As if he needs that particular reminder.

“Fine,” he says, his voice gruff. “We’ll go home, order pizza. Keep our cloney existence a secret, et cetera.”

Their ride back to Grantaire’s apartment is less silent than the drive out—Grantaire leaves the radio off, and they speak in low voices punctuated by bursts of quiet laughter.

…..

“Oh my god,” Grantaire grumbles loudly, after a week of listening to Enjolras toss and turn on his couch. “Oh my god, how have you not learned how to sleep comfortably on that thing already? Do you want the bed? I’ve offered you my bed literally every night. Just get to  _sleep_ , Enjolras, for fuck’s sake.”

He hasn’t been able to masturbate for a week. The frustration may be starting to bleed through.

“Your couch is a piece of shit,” Enjolras grumbles right back, and Grantaire smothers his laughter in his pillow.

“We’re spending too much time together. You’re starting to sound like me.”

There’s a few moments of silence from the couch—even his twists to get comfortable have ceased—and then Grantaire hears Enjolras’s now familiar  _guffaw_. An actual guffaw. It would be an ugly sound coming from anyone else, but God knows every little thing about Enjolras just charms Grantaire even further. It’s dark and the couch is not in his line of vision, but he can imagine Enjolras tilting his head toward his left shoulder as he laughs, like he does every time. It’s a self-deprecating gesture—probably the only self-deprecating thing about him.

“Are you sure you don’t want my bed?” Grantaire asks, though he can hear his smile in his own voice. “When Eponine stays over she usually takes it, so I’m used to the couch.”

“I’m not kicking you out of your own bed,” Enjolras huffs.

More movement from the couch. Grantaire hears the shuffle of blankets and the shift of springs—then footsteps, bare feet on his old hardwood floor.

He turns over.

Enjolras is staring down at him, looking apprehensive. In the dark, he looks more familiar. Looks like Grantaire’s reflection in the middle of the night, when he passes the mirror on his trudge to the bathroom to take a piss, or when he sees his likeness in the window when it’s he who can’t sleep, and he sits smoking in the cold air on the fire escape.

“Sorry,” Enjolras whispers. He doesn’t meet Grantaire’s eyes, and lets his gaze sweep the bed, instead. It’s a full-sized bed—not big enough for two people to sleep in a comfortable, touch-free sprawl—but big for two people who don’t mind if their elbows brush or their hips end up pressed together in the middle of the night or one of them accidentally wakes up with their face buried in the other one’s hair smelling like his own shampoo.

Wordlessly, Grantaire shifts further to the side of the bed, to let Enjolras climb in beside him.


End file.
